Peeling Away @ Pop Culture That's Ripe

Uncle Sean’s Story Time… Hoop There It Is!

Gather ’round, gather ’round, kiddies… it’s time for another one of Uncle Sean’s drunk stories… this one may explain where the “Twilight Zone” got its name… you know, ’cause something weird happened at twilight… well, at about 6pm or so…

The bulk of the friends I have I’ve had for almost all my life. From grade school on, there’s about a handful of us that keep in close touch contact with each other, and still hang out. They’re like brothers to me, and hence are like Uncles to you.

Your Uncle Tom and his then fiancée, Aunt Jenny, invited a group of us up to her family’s cabin. Upon arrival, we spend a good amount of time chatting and partaking of spirits. We had a late lunch and decided to head off to the lake.

It was a beautiful day, so they took us out on the boat. I dove off the back while we were cruising (the spirits moved me to do it). It was shallow where we were (I was unaware of that fact), so luckily we were at travelling speeds. Otherwise, I might have sunk down rather than skim the top. Nonetheless, I spent the rest of the ride drying off and grinning from ear to ear.

On land, where the towels were actually at, I continued to fill my tummy with carbonated carbs after I changed out of my bathing suit. The basketball court was empty, so a few of us guys grabbed the orange orb from my car’s trunk and he hit the pavement.

Someone decided it would be a good idea to try to incorporate drinking into the gameplay. So what we devised was each person had to hold a can in one hand, and dribble/shoot/block with the free hand. If you spilled your lager – you had to drink. If you spilled another player’s – you had to slam dunk yours. We dribbled our way to 21 (ironic) for awhile, when a group of kids showed up.

They were adolescents and their numbers matched those of us playing. They kept trying to steal the ball and play in our game, but as they did not have beers, we would not let them.

One of them was a little bit obnoxious, and one of your uncle’s wasn’t afraid to be obnoxious back.

One of them had a broken arm; one of your uncle’s broke his arm at that age.

One of them was plain clumsy, as I oft tend to be.

From the sidelines, your Uncle Rodney started laughing as the battle waged on. The sun was lowering and the rest of the group was packing up to head back to the cabin. I asked what he found so funny.

“They’re all miniature versions of you! Even down to the hair color.” Red for red, brown for brown, and blonde for blonde.

MORAL OF THE STORY: Don’t drink while out too long in the sun or you might cause a dimensional vortex that could threaten the fabric of our universe.